


Like Weeds

by Senket



Series: House Dynamics [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-16 14:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's thing for Mayforth has gotten out of hand. Mycroft's reaction is disproportional- and very Slytherin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Weeds

Greg grinned at Mycroft when the fifteen-year-old Slytherin slid into the prefect compartment, lifting his feet from the opposite seat to let the boy settle in before dropping them back in Mycroft's laugh. He lazed there as they waited for the train to fill- 1st of September already, fog condensing against the windows, making the crowds outside blobs of color. "You've gotten skinny, Holmes."

Mycroft's pudgy ten-year-old form had been gradually lessening in rotundity over the past few years but he could always be described as 'heavy'- until now, apparently, the teen boy now far more angular than before. Mycroft's expression twisted into something half a smug smile and half an irritated grimace. "Yes. I have."

Greg shrugged, slouching. He didn't shift when Beatrice breezed in, dropping her trunk in the middle of the compartment with a huff before sitting next to Greg, leaning her head against his shoulder. Though they were both relaxed, Bea and Mycroft avoided looking at each other. (Their common bond through Greg had broken during the two months of messy 'divorce' between her and Lestrade, and had never been repaired.)

Charlie wandered in, grinning boyishly at them ("Guess who made head boy!") Greg sat up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, flushing furiously as he tried to make himself unattached to Beatrice or Mycroft, looking about for a seat to offer the young man. (He didn't have one, and that was what he got for sitting in the corner.) He completely missed the cold expression that flashed across Mycroft's face before he quickly shuttered himself away.

\-------------

His own footsteps echoed loudly in the empty hall. Soft whispers emanated from the painting lining the walls as they visited each other, beaming down at him benevolently. He knew them all, every gossip, ever figure with a sister painting in a distant place. He was usually so kind to them, ‘clever little boy,’ friendly and cheerful, intelligent, philosophical and just a little secretive; not enough to attract their attention but just enough that they wouldn’t be suspicious that he was studiously disguising an ulterior motive. ‘Natural.’ He knew them as well as he knew those famous people he corresponded with- Bagshot, Scamander, Hopwart. (Regularly visited Headmaster Dumbledore to talk over tea, had been introduced to some very interesting people by him. Discussed anti-curse magic with Moody for god’s sake.) He stopped to discuss Merlin’s Theorem on Time (and Travelling Sideways In It) with the portrait of Sir Dibgy Raughenstaus; fifteen minutes on, a cluster of the castle’s more high-minded inhabitants had appeared in the nearby portraits to join the discussion.

Everything fell silent with the burst of giggles that crashed through the hallway.

Mycroft was a prefect and he was meant to be doing rounds. The paintings and ghosts all smiled kindly and a little regretfully, bid their goodbyes and dispersed. Mycroft sighed, tucked his hands into his robes and followed the sound. He froze when he turned to find Charles and Gregory crashing against each other and to the ground, playwrestling, Greg laughing and flushed red, shrieking as Charles sat on his chest and tickled mercilessly. “That’s what you get, you brat! ...oh, hello Holmes.” Charles flashed Greg a triumphant grin, straightening his robe as he stood.

Mycroft’s answering smile was sharp and cold. “Mayforth.” He managed to restrain his tone, thankfully, nails biting into his palms. ‘This silly crush is getting entirely out of hand,’ he thought, breath quick and shallow in his burning ribcage. Thankfully, he knew exactly what to do about that.

\-------------

“What do you mean, ‘you’re leaving’?”

“I got this letter!” Charlie brandished an envelope; Greg didn’t miss the way the young man glowed, brown eyes bright, cheeks flushed.

“What about it?” He knew he was being petulant but this was ridiculous. It was barely November- he was supposed to have Charlie until June. (In the way he could have Charlie, anyway.)

“Listen. It’s from Scamander himself! He wants me to join the institute Diricawl hunt in January. He says I come highly recommended. Me. Can you imagine?” He gave a whoop, running down the hall and back up- clearly excited. Greg watched with a sinking feeling in his gut and kicked-puppy eyes. “I wonder who recommended me. Not Kettleburn, she thinks I’m a moron.”

Greg sank to a sitting position against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest as he watched, sixteen and alone. “But- Charlie. Think about this. What if it goes badly? You won’t have any NEWTs. They won’t want to give you a job.”

Charlie came back, crouching in front of Greg, pushing his face close and peering at him with narrowed eyes. “What’s bloody wrong with you?”

“I just think you should be careful, I mean-”

“Thought you might be happy for me, kid.”

“Charlie, I-”

“Never mind,” Charlie snorted, standing up and striding back down the hall.

\-------

“And then he said, ‘at least my friends are happy for me’!”

Mycroft’s smile was tinted with a regretful sympathy as he watched Greg pace back and forth, the Gryffindor red-faced and clearly agitated, waving his hands wildly. “Anise Richley and I have been patrolling together for two years. Would you consider us friends?”

“Mycroft-”

“Did you speak to Mayforth about your perceived relationship?”

“Well, I-”

“Perhaps it did not occur to him; you were never together outside of patrols, after all.”

“Sure, but I... I thought-”

“Greg.”

Lestrade sighed, shoulders slumping as he turned to look. Mycroft tilted his head, a small smile flickering across his lips, held his hand out. Greg came, obedient; Mycroft took his hand and drew him closer into him, wrapping an arm around the older boy’s shoulder and combing his fingers through his hair, lightly scratching his nails down the nape of Greg’s neck. Greg huffed and sank into the friendly hug.

They stayed. Mycroft wrapped his arms loosely around his elder’s shoulders. Lestrade thought things over. And paused. “...You’re taller than me, now. I hadn’t noticed.”

Mycroft smiled smugly. Step one.


End file.
